


Viskovie's Songfics

by Viskovie



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies), Sand Castle (2017), The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Drabble Collection, Drunkenness, Fluff, Guns N' Roses References, I'll update the tags with the chapters, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Multi, Not a Crossover, Some angst, Songfic, reflective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19342063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viskovie/pseuds/Viskovie
Summary: A series of (mostly unrelated) mini-fics and drabbles. Some will be angsty, some will be fluffy, and some may be deep-and-meaningful. All of these will be inspired by songs, so I'll credit the artist at the start of each chapter.





	1. Sinner's Prayer

'Sinner's Prayer' - Lady Gaga

Al Capone/Napoleon Bonaparte (Night at the Museum)

Al's perspective

* * *

I watch the smoke from my lit cigarette curl upwards, drifting aimlessly out of the window only to be ripped apart by the pouring rain. I shift my weight, leaning more heavily against the frame. It’s been two short years since Nippy and I fell apart and I miss him.

We’d been together officially for about three years,  and God knows they were the best – and worst – of my life. It was sweet, but destined from the start to go sour. We were the fire that lights up the world; some nights it was out of love and passion, and some nights it was out of hate and fury.

I shouldn’t have said half of what I did. I drove him up the wall because it was hot, but I pushed him too far, it seems. I guess it all went to hell because I can’t be held down – I can’t focus all my attention on one lover, and I know it’s bad, but I’ve given up trying to tame my restless heart. Nippy, though. . . he has a funny way, saying forever too fast. He always does things that way – all or nothing. I respect that in a person, but it made our relationship even more difficult because what he wanted I wasn’t always willing to give.

He and the rest of the Revolution exhibit were transferred to some museum in France, where hopefully he can get more of the attention he deserves. I still love him. Jesus in Heaven, hear my sinner’s prayer; I am what I am. I broke Nippy’s heart. We took something from each other that can never be given back, and if I could go back and start again I would. I don’t know how much would change, but I’d try.

My cigarette has burned down to my fingers, so I flick it out the window and hope that the rain puts it out. I can’t be stuffed to get down there and make sure. My heart’s heavy and I know I should move on but it’s difficult. How can you do that when somebody still holds a piece of you, but you know you aren’t likely to see them again? I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see my brother standing there with a concerned look on his face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I let him guide me away, and I try to think about something else. There’s no comfort in staying in the past, only in the future. Time heals, right?


	2. Electric Chapel

"Electric Chapel" - Lady Gaga

James Harper/Matt Ocre (Sand Castle 2017)

 * * *

“. . . follow me, don’t be such a holy fool. Follow me, I need something sacred from you. . . ”

Somebody was humming softly somewhere, and it was irritating Harper to no end. He couldn’t hear it enough to identify who was singing, but it was loud enough that he couldn’t just ignore it either. He sighed, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He’d come out here, in the middle of the goddamn night, so that he could just be alone for a minute. He loved his team (in a brotherly way, obviously) but they weren’t very good with personal space. Chutsky, Burton and Enzo were always hanging all over each other, sharing sweat and dirty jokes, and even though it was nice to have such close friends, it got pretty draining after a while. And all three of them snored like dogs.

“. . . together we’ll both find a way, to make a pure love work in a dirty way. . . ”

Harper sighed, and slid gracelessly off the low wall he was sitting on. He followed the sound as best he could, and it led him to one of the nearby Humvees. As he got closer, he began to recognise Ocre’s voice. _The kid was a half-decent singer,_ he thought, in spite of himself.

Harper found him lounging in the back seat, nursing a liquor bottle and a cigarette. His eyes were half-closed and smoke was swirling lazily around him. The sergeant let out an irritated huff. He didn’t know how the hell Ocre had even managed to get hold of the alcohol, let alone the keys to the vehicle. He was pretty sure the keys were all locked up in Syverson’s office, and booze was difficult to come by in this wretched place. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to be out at this hour – captain’s orders, and Harper didn’t feel like explaining to Syverson why they were _both_ out of their bunks in the middle of the night.

Ocre continued to hum the song, occasionally taking a deep swig from the bottle. Harper considered wrenching open the door and hauling him out, but it didn’t seem like the kid had noticed him yet.

“. . . if you want me, meet me at Electric Chapel. If you wanna steal my heart away, meet me- meet me baby in a safe place. . . ”

Instead, he found himself rooted to the ground. Ocre was curled up on the two back seats, his jacket draped across him like a blanket, and it was the most peaceful Harper had ever seen him. Usually he had the tense, wary look of a rabbit caught in the headlights, and Harper couldn’t honestly blame him. Ocre wasn’t cut out for war – he was probably better suited to libraries, and dusky fields, and quiet coffee shops where you could get comfy on a beanbag with a mug of hot chocolate and a book. His gut ached when he thought about how much this war would damage him. Ocre was a sweet guy – exactly Harper’s type, and in different circumstances they might have been dating, but the likelihood of both making it out of this hellhole as functioning human beings was slim.

“. . . if you want me, meet me at Electric Chapel. If you want me, meet me at Electric Chapel. . . ”

 _He was so pretty,_ Harper thought. Funny how he’d never really noticed that before. Ocre was almost ethereal in the barren wasteland that was Baghdad; a gentle spirit forced to live and fight in the most unforgiving environment imaginable.

He realised he’d been standing there a while when Ocre looked up and saw him. Instead of flinching or trying to hide the bottle, he beckoned to him. Before he could stop himself, the sergeant had opened the door and wriggled inside. Ocre moved his legs, offering him a drink. Harper shook his head.

“Couldn’ sleep.” Ocre slurred, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. “Chutz sleeps like a hurricane, ‘n I’m right above ‘im.” Harper nodded sympathetically. He’d managed to score the only single bed, so he didn’t have to put up with the frame creaking and swaying as somebody rolled over. Judging from how Enzo and Burton’s bedframe squeaked, either Enzo danced in his sleep or Burton didn’t spend a whole lot of time in his own bunk.

“Also, uhm. . . ” Ocre said, shifting slightly and clutching his bottle to his chest like a teddy bear. Harper stayed silent, waiting to see where this went. The kid stammered a little, clearly not keen to admit something. “It’s. . . I’m not. . . uh. . . nightmares, y’know?” He finished in a rush. He hid his face, and Harper knew he had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what else to do, so he wrapped his arms around Ocre’s shoulders and held him for a moment.

As he went to pull away, Ocre nuzzled closer, making a noise of protest. He was an affectionate drunk, Harper noted. The kid started shaking, like he was crying, and Harper’s heart melted. All soldiers knew what PTSD was, but nobody really knew how to deal with it, so it came as no surprise that Ocre had turned to alcohol.

“I’ve got ya.” He murmured, gently rubbing the other’s back. They stayed like that for a long time – until the sky turned lighter and the sun began to creep upwards. Harper woke from his doze and looked over at Ocre. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be fast asleep. He’d have a killer headache when he woke up, so the sergeant let him sleep. He considered trying to manoeuvre him out of the Humvee, but figured it was too much effort. Instead, he pried himself out of Ocre’s arms and went to find Syverson. The captain was sensitive as a blunt axe, but he’d understand. Nobody slept well in war, so hopefully he’d let Ocre off lightly. No reason to let someone catch them cuddling in the truck like a pair of lovestruck idiots.

 


	3. Right Next Door To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say; I have not forgotten about my other fic, but between studying and a new fandom, I haven't really been inspired to continue with it yet. I will get back to it eventually, though. 
> 
> Anyways, here's my contribution to the teeny-tiny SC fandom.

 

"Right Next Door To Hell" - Guns N' Roses

No relationship mentioned

(Sand Castle 2017)

 * * *

“Aw c’mon, Ocre!” Said Burton, almost pleading. An old, vaguely recognisable ballad was playing in the background. Chutsky was pretty sure it was Bon Jovi, but he wasn't completely sure.

“No.” Came the blunt reply. Ocre was elbow-deep in cables and wires, having been given the task of untangling them. So far, he was doing a damn good job; Chutsky was impressed. _He_ struggled with his headphones after they’d been in his pocket for too long, and the miles of black cables that Ocre was sorting through were giving him a headache.

“Pleeeaase?” Enzo added, doing his best kicked-puppy look. It didn’t work.

“I’ll do your laundry for the next week.” Burton offered, but Ocre shook his head.

“That hardly sweetens the deal.” He murmured, focused on what he was doing. Chutsky shook his head in disbelief.

“You _wanna_ wash the grit outta your stuff?” He asked, and Ocre shrugged. _He was chill,_ Chutsky thought. _Kinda placid, actually_.

“Please, man! We wanna know what kinda music you’re into!” Said Chutsky, leaning on the crates standing beside him. He felt one shift and quickly stood upright. If they fell over, not only would it be embarrassing, Syverson would probably yell at him and make him stack them again. Ocre stopped, a length of cable wrapped around his arm, and surveyed his team suspiciously. Chutsky sort of wished that he would trust them, but even _he_ had to admit that they’d never really given him a reason to. In the beginning, they’d pranked him mercilessly and the poor kid had fallen for it nearly every time. He was getting much smarter now, though, and they were starting to run out of ideas.

“I said no.” He said finally, and Enzo groaned. Then he smirked, and Chutsky had to hide his grin. He knew that look.

“Whaddya listen to that you don’t want us to hear?” He teased, and Ocre glared at him. He stood up, carefully placing the untangled cables in neat piles. Burton crowed, and Chutsky smiled openly. Ocre was getting savvier, but he was still manipulatable. The kid gave all three of them a dirty look, and went to change the song. Enzo and Burton discreetly high-fived, then winked at Chutsky. He was interested, but also a little apprehensive; what if Ocre was into some kind of foreign folk music, or worse – the standard radio-pop? They waited until he got the song running, and then Enzo’s mouth fell open.

The song started with a thrumming bassline, followed by a guitar hiss and a scorching riff. The singer had one of the roughest voices Chutsky had ever heard – it sorta reminded him of the guy from AC/DC. The song was fast and hard, and about halfway through, the singer let out an unmistakable “fuck you”, holding the note for an impressively long time – even as it degenerated into a raw screech. The song ended, and the guys looked at Ocre with wide eyes.

“Happy now?” He asked dryly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What… what band was that?” Burton said weakly. Ocre arched an eyebrow, clearly impatient.

“Guns N’ Roses.” He replied shortly. Chutsky didn’t know what to say. He’d always assumed Ocre was this soft, naïve kid who would rather be at home with mama, and wouldn’t know rock if it slapped him in the face. But, apparently, he was more hardcore than they’d given him credit for.

“Can I get back to what I was doing, now?” He muttered, already starting to sit down beside his piles of wires. Chutsky snapped out of it, and shook his head slowly.

“Nope.” He said, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “I wanna know how much more of their stuff ya got. Or are you a one-trick pony?” Ocre made a noise of disapproval, but complied anyway, the cables lying forgotten on the floor.


	4. Giving Up The Ghost

'Giving Up The Ghost' - Kerli

Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks

Goody's perspective

* * *

I watch as the light of the dying sun catches on Billy’s hair, his shoulders, the curve of his back. It’s a beautiful sunset, and it would be the only thing either of us were focused on if he weren’t so stunning, himself. He damn near outshines the rapidly-dropping sun, even though we’ve been on the trail for several days now and everyone smells like a farmyard. Except Red Harvest, that is. The cheeky bugger probably still smells like pine smoke, and the sage and cinnamon he’d chewed on this morning for his teeth. I know for a fact that _I_ smell like sweaty horse, as Billy kindly pointed it out to me earlier when we stopped for lunch.

“You stink like old stables.” He’d laughed, not wanting to let me get anywhere near him, despite not really smelling any better. Hmph. So much for always supporting each other!

Our horses plod on tirelessly, and I find myself mesmerised by the sway of Billy’s hips in his saddle. They form an undulating line with his spine, and his stilled shoulders, and it’s somehow sensual and soothing at the same time. He walks in the same manner. Looking back, I’m not actually sure why I was surprised the first time I saw him dance.

He’d had his back turned, so he didn’t know I was there, but he’d been gently moving to a tune only he could hear. I’d watched in awe for a bit, then turned away before he could see me and vow never to dance again. He’s shy that way, and it pains me.

Billy has become a central part of my life; not just as my best friend and lover, but also as my anchor. He keeps me grounded when the nightmares threaten to set me adrift. When I wake up from a particularly bad one, in cold sweat and with the screams of the fallen still echoing in my ears, he’s there. He holds me close and pets my hair, reassuring me that the war can’t hurt me anymore. I can’t put into words how much I love him, and how lucky I am that our paths crossed all those years ago. Some days, he’s the only thing keeping me from letting myself disappear. I could never do that to him, not after everything he’s done for me.

Over the last few months, we’ve been working together to help me shed the last of my battle-fatigue. It’s… it’s not been easy, but I don’t think I’d have been able to do this by myself. With Billy’s gentle care and endless patience, I’ve realised that it’s time to turn the page and burn the book. I can’t let myself be dogged by the demons of my past. As Sam put it, that fateful, fearful night in Rose Creek, what we lose in the fire we’ll find in the ashes.

Billy found me when I thought I could never be found again, and he taught me what it means to love someone so much that you can lift yourself out of Hell. He has always had my back, so I no longer have to live haunted. Even the owl stays away when I am with him. I think he knows this, enigma that he is, and that’s why he doesn’t complain when I get a little clingy.

The sun has finally touched the horizon, and Faraday suggests we stop and make camp. We’re deep in the heart of Indian territory, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes how twitchy he is. Twice now, Red has pranked him by firing an arrow into the brush ahead for no apparent reason. Both times, Faraday’s eyes have gone wide and his gun has found its way into his hand, as he clearly thinks we’ve stumbled into an ambush. Both times, Red had retrieved the arrow with mirth sparkling in his eyes, despite being chastised hotly by Horne for it. Apparently, he’s rather nervous, too.

Billy drops gracefully down next to his horse and twists around to look at me.

“You okay?” He mouths, like he can hear my thoughts. I nod, and his lips curve into a little smile. He turns forward again, and starts removing his horse’s saddle. Nearby, Vasquez and Red are arguing about the best way to cook a rabbit. Well, Vasquez is arguing; Red just rolls his eyes and plants his hands on his hips. He and Faraday share the uncanny ability to antagonise the Mexican without having to actually say anything. Billy catches my eye again, and shakes his head at them. I make my way over and wrap my arms around his waist. Sure, he smells a little gamey, but I don’t care. I’m immeasurably grateful for him, and I let him know this by placing a gentle kiss to his cheek. He touches my hand, and I know that he understands.


End file.
